Gaz'at Dahl: Shield of the Dragonborn
by Gaz'at Dahl
Summary: Years after the liberation of Skyrim, warrior Gaz'at Dahl retells the story of bygone days, when he'd been the strong right hand of the Shrieking Dunmer of the North, the shield of the Dragonborn. As he sits in pubs and drinks the nights away with old comrades-in-arms, he wonders if he'll ever be called upon to fight again... Blades sharp, he eagerly awaits his old ally's return...
1. Reminiscences

"Hahaha, and then, and then- He punched the poor lad right in the face, clean off his feet!" The table roared with laughter, increasing the noise level within the Bannered Mare to at least twice its standing decibels. This was a feat in and of itself because it was so damned loud and packed in here to begin with. I smiled into my mug, listening to the stories coming in from across the bar.

The Bannered Mare, best damn tavvy in Whiterun. Hell, the only tavvy in Whiterun, at least worth mentioning. I lived in Solitude, technically, because I owned a house there, but for some reason, I'd always felt so much more at home in Whiterun. Maybe it was that Solitude was full of those damn Imperial sympathizers everywhere. That, and the tavern up there, the Winking Skeever, was no fun at all. Hardly ever any brawls. Me, I definitely preferred the rowdier, more boisterous drinking places, like the Bannered Mare of Whiterun, or mebbe the Bee and the Barb of Riften.

"Eh, but I'm not the man to talk of epic stories. You all should ask the Argonian over there by the door," my friend said with a smile. "Damn, does he have stories to tell!" he straightened up, downed his tankard and stood up to introduce me. I quaffed the remainder of my ale and asked Saadia, the Redguard woman who ran the inn for another round for me and Raylief, that stupid beautiful bastard that he is. I stood up as well as my drunken legs would let me and let him get on with it. "This wonderful bastard right here is the one I was just talking about!" he said rather tipsily.

a Nord stood up with his mead and asked," who, the puncher or the punchee?" everyone who was listening gave a good, hearty laugh, including me.

"Bahaha, you lads laugh, but the Dragonborn throws a mean right hook!" I retorted, much to the group's enjoyment. I slid a tankard down-range to Raylief and took the second for myself. Saadia knew me, she'd put it on my tab.

"Hoi, you drunken skunks, let me get on with them introductions, then!" that was Raylief, getting right back into it. "This is mine brother, not by blood but by Battlefield! He's a thief and a bastard, aye, but a mighty fine warrior as well! He ran with the Dragonborn for the longest time, you know," slurred my companion of battles gone by. "My shield-brother, Gaz'at Dahl here, he fought dragons and Daedra! Slain warriors and wizards alike!" he extolled, as he waved his arm for dramatic effect. The blasted Stormcloak nearly swiped my drink right out of my hands! With a quick (but off-balanced and drunken) duck, I put myself under his arm and we leaned upon each other for support. The men and women, all brave soldiers and strong warriors alike, raised a mug and cheered for my claimed deeds. Only in their wildest dreams did most of them ever think to battle such creatures and enemies. Others, I saw, looked a bit skeptical, needed convincing.

"Bah. 'E don't seem like too much. 'an we all know that nowadays the Dragonborn does his adventurin' alone." the Breton who spoke didn't seem like he was looking for a fist to the face, just some poor bastard too deep in his cups. And me? I love a good fight as much or more than the next man or Mer, but I wasn't so deep into my cup meself that I'd kill anything that moved. Yet. I had to get really hammered for that kind of violence. So instead of downing my courage and leaping for the man's throat, I calmed my twitching tail and looked the man coolly in the eye.

"Believe you, me, Breton." I hissed in the characteristic drawl of all Argonian. "I fought against, with, for and by the side of the Dragonborn of the cold, white north." I shot a glance Raylief's way and he winked and got up, so I decided to continue. The men around us at the table drew closer, sensing a story of blood and chaos and honor and bravery, just the story I was lookin' to tell. "Lemme tell you all a story. A story of danger and Daedra, a story of dragons and Draugr alike." I paused for a moment, waving my arms expansively for dramatic effect. Raylief came back with the Cyrodiilic whiskey I always drank when I spun this particular tale at the taverns.

"An' this whole thing is true, lemme tell you. You'd best believe it, mates." Raylief, suddenly seeming much more sober, spun easily into his chair. "He _did_ go toe to toe with the Shrieking Dunmer himself, after all."

"Aye, that I did, mates. But that comes later in the story." I downed a slug of my whiskey straight from the bottle like I had so long ago, on that frosted night, and from there, I pulled myself back, through space and time. I went back years, to the very beginning, the first time I'd met Corvus Maren, my strongest ally and most steadfast friend, the Dragonborn himself. "And remember lads, I make none of this up. 'Tis all from memory, though, so bear with me." back to the beginning it was. "The night was dark; the moon was low in the sky. I found myself enlisted with some squad of Mercenaries down by Riften town..."


	2. First Contact

**Hey there, viewers, sorry 'bout the wait, but i'm workin' a huge project and didnt have much free time to do this. nevertheless, here it is. enjoy :)**

I found myself enlisted with some squad of mercenaries down by Riften town. We were hired to protect this estate, the "Goldenglow" Estate, for whatever reason. This seemed like an easy job, just guard duty, but shit hits the fan real fast when you have Corvus to contend with.

Some asshat Bosmer, Aringoth I think, was the Mer responsible for bringing on these mercs. Apparently someone had decided to piss off Maven Black-Briar, the woman who pretty much ran Riften's underground (and a bit of its aboveground as well) elements, and to a lesser extent, the Thieves Guild. We were here for protection and insurance purposes. The merc company I found myself attached to hired me and some others because they were short a few men and figured a professional sell-sword or four like myself would do a bit to even out their ranks. We, plus the company, put the unit up to somewhere 'round thirty men. I, like the majority of my shift, was posted on outside guard, in the fuckin' freezing cold I might add, to cover the perimeter of the island.

Naturally, like most strikers, guard duty didn't sit well with me, so I brought along a good friend of mine to ward off the worst of Skyrim's bitter cold. I sat down at my post behind just the main building, scanning the placid lake for any sign of intruders. Having seen none for the past three days and nights, besides authorized buyers during the mornings, I hauled out my favorite companion, an old, near-vintage, bottle of Cyrodiilic whiskey, the finest I could buy with the remainder of septims from my last job. I knocked back my first shot and settled in for the long night ahead.

Maybe two, three hours before dawn, the darkest part of the night, I fought to stay awake and keep at least some semblance of alertness. Over half the bottle was gone and there hadn't been the slightest ripple in the water. I was bored out of my fuckin' mind and it seemed like it was playing tricks on me too. I hadn't had a real fight for so long, even on my last job, that my mind was dredging up sounds of battles gone by to soothe my tenderized brain. There I heard the sound of striking sword, the clack of axe on armor. There was the sound of a dagger sliding into place, like a key into a lock. I reveled in the distant sounds of combat, memories though they were. Then I saw the shadow slide across the wall out of the corner of my eye.

Black on black, hardly recognizable as a person, especially in my inebriated state. Self-preservation is a wonderful thing, though, and while my mind was still trying to make sense of why there was a blot in my vision, my body was already kicking my ass out of the chair and into high gear. The dagger readied by my unexpected enemy slid a hair's breadth from my throat and cut a dark red slash across my cheek.

I, much to my despair, hurled the bottle containing the remainder of my Cyrodiilic whiskey at the shadow in an attempt to buy myself time to snap into a battle-ready state. By the time my enemy had recovered from my impromptu attack, I was already a bound, skip, and a roll away. I already had drawn my Imperial sword and my shield was strapped on. My armor was already in place. The assassin emerged from the darkness like a spectre of doom.

He, because it was a he, wore some expensive ebony armor, gauntlets, and plate boots, his face obscured by a dark black hood. He wielded a black sword in his right hand and a lightly glinting dagger in the other in a ready-stance that was distinctly elven. With armor that heavy, it was obviously magical in origin that I didn't hear the clank of metal on metal. His armor so obviously outclassed my own, though. I wore a full set of mail-backed steel armor and my only enchantment was on my boots, fitted for fleetness of foot. I would have to be careful in this fight. There was an aura of magic about this man, as with nearly all elves. I was doubly certain of that aspect of my opponent because the sword he wielded, what with the faint mist rising up off the blade, was obviously frost-enchanted. No matter, I'd fought mages and spell-swords before.

I rocked off my back foot and snapped all my weight into the first blow, determined to get up close and in his face, in case he decided to start casting spells. I feinted high with my sword while my shield ran through his middle, trying to knock him off guard. He skipped back out of the way of my attack and used his sword to bat my shield away from my chest and put me off-balanced, but I knew what he planned to do next. When he swung his body through down low to plunge his dagger into my ribs, I countered his short-handed strike with my sword and he was left with his back to me. Seeing as both our weapons were out of range for striking, I decided to kick him right in the ass. In stead of stumbling forward onto his face and giving me full ability to put him down, he rolled forward and pivoted on his foot to face me. His hood fell and I was left face to face with my adversary.

He was a Dunmer, not an Altmer! The whole time I thought that a fighter elf with such skill would have to be Altmer. The other races of Mer, aside from the orcs, were never known for their skill in hand-to-hand combat. The Bosmer were archers, the Dunmer were mages, and the Altmer were spell-swords, everyone knew this. Well, everyone except this one.

I snarled at him and launched myself back into the attack. My steel carved a path directly where the Dunmer was less than a moment before and I was forced to dodge his counter jab to my ribs. I tried to slam my shield into his face to gain some room to swing my weapon, but he caught the edge of it and sent it off to the left, though still strapped to my arm. I spun through and struck low with my tail, attempting to cut his legs out from under him, but he jumped the blow and performed a backwards somersault to avoid my follow-up. Instead of waiting for me to re-engage, he immediately forced the attack, swinging high with his dagger and coming back across with his sword. I ducked low to avoid the lesser of the two, and blocked the sword with my own. Steel screeched on ebony, but it was imperial steel, and forged by me, no less, and so it stood it's ground. I exploited this opening in his guard and slammed my shield into his chest.

He stumbled back, but rather than falter as I charged into him, he skipped to the left in an attempt to avoid my blade. As it was, I nicked his dagger arm, drawing blood on my opponent for the first time. He laughed and jumped right back at me. Because I tried to take him in a headlong charge in my last assault, my back was turned. I dropped to my knee, brought my shield to cover my head, and pivoted to face him in one fluid movement. His sword clanged off my guard, but he brought his dagger through and dug it into the wood of my shield dragging it out of positioning. His sword hand recovered and nearly ran me through, but I snapped my own into his and downward, blocking the thrust and trapping it against the ground. I stepped on the blades, released my grip on my hilt, and slammed my fist into his mouth. "_fuck you!_"

He rolled with the punch and caught my left wrist with both hands, the one holding my shield. Suddenly I was airborne! The little bastard flipped me! I landed on my back, winded. The shield and dagger were nowhere to be seen. Before I could recover from this latest attack, the elf was on top of me in full armor, straddling me and raining blows down on my un-helmeted face. "Eat _shit_, lizard!" he yelled with a crazy grin plastering his face. I held my gauntlets over my own, switched my hips, and threw him off me.

"_You first, elf_!" I jumped up to push my advantage, but he was already coming at me. I took a mean right hook to the ribs and a solid left to my shoulder, but then I speared him in the chest, denting the ebony and cracking two of the spikes on my brow. Mother, bless her soul, would have had my head for that one. Still, I had the fucking bastard right where I wanted him. Just a few more strikes and the fight would be finished. Gods damn, was I ever _more_ wrong?

He was on his back and I had superior positioning. I wasn't going to make the mistake of straddling him as he did me. Instead, stood and landed huge devastating blows upon his head and shoulders. I got in maybe five or six massive hits before I got too close. He broke his guard for a half-second to clap his hands heavily upon my ears. I was dazed for less than a half-second, but that was enough to finish me. he swung back and head-butted me right in the forehead, sending dark spots dancing across my vision. "it's been fun, Argonian." he said, preparing his parting blow. Pant, pant. "But I still have my mission to fulfill." I landed one blow to his ribs, deflected by his armor, and then he conjured a firebolt in the palm of his hand and slammed it directly into my chest, sending me flying a good three yards. I landed on my back for the second time in as many minutes, struggling to recover and fight once more for my life. I got to one knee and looked up at this warrior above me. He held his dagger point to my throat and said," Surrender now and I'll spare your life, "He said it smugly like he'd known all along that he would finally beat me in the end. to see his leering face sickened me. one who could put an end to me? bullshit.

"_DEATH FIRST_!" I screamed as I batted aside the dagger with my gauntleted right hand. My left crunched into his chest plate and made a slight dent. He rammed the blade hilt-deep into my gut. "Uh. Hnngh."I coughed into his face, spitting up globules of blood. The dagger slid from my body and I fell to the floor. Darkness crept upon my vision.

"So be it." Now that his dagger was slick with the blood of another, I recognized the blade. Mehrune's Razor, of the Oblivion Crisis. I was a dead man.


	3. To Whiterun

**Author's Note:**** you maddafackas better start reviewing or imma stop writing DX ...and about the whole not writing for a long-ass time, I'll make it up to you by postin' two chapters tonight, yeah? alright then. this one's a little short, but the next one'll be longer, i promise...**

Maybe twelve hours later I awoke to a smell of watered down smoke, blood, gore, and mudcrab. I slowly cracked open an eye and started to take stock of my surroundings. I was where I had fallen after my altercation with the assassin. The house was singed, and blood stained several of the walls visible to me. Across the way, the beehives and other buildings on the estate still smoldered under the sun's cruel gaze. For once, the day was unbearably hot. I was attempting to gather my body and stand, but a rock moved below my left arm and a chitinous claw made a wild snap for my face. "_bloody fuck!_" I made a mad scramble to get away from my newest assailant, a gods damned mudcrab. Not that the bastards were scary or intimidating in any way, but anything would scare _you _if you just woke from a killer hangover, a rampaging battle for your life, the last job you took failed, and oh wait, _you practically fucking died last night?!_

I hung my head as the whole night came slamming back into me like a freight train. The mudcrab crawled off to the lakeshore as I assessed myself. My breastplate was dented; my mail was shorn in several places. I had cracked three of my spikes in the final moments, and sure enough, there was a large, gaping hole where the elf had stabbed me, still caked with blood. I must have activated my Histskin unconsciously, saving my life by sheer dumb luck. I sat down hard, pissed at myself and the mysterious Dunmer. Of all the nights to get drunk of my ass, of all nights to assault Goldenglow, why last night? Of course, it was just chance that it happened how it did, but gods _damn! _I was amazed at how good the Dunmer was, though. I was, not to be a braggart, quite the swordsman. Shit, I even held my own against seven of the Thalmor in a skirmish a few miles east of Markarth a while back. Killed three before some legionnaires on the lam arrived and swept up the pieces.

I got up, intending to gather my weapons, armor, and assorted items and leave. Then, I realized just how much carnage the bastard had wreaked across the Estate. Fully nine bodies lay dead around the perimeter of the house, presumably assassinated. I sighed and moved on, looking for my sword. No man deserved to be killed from the shadows without a chance. I mean, I didn't even like the assholes, but death without a chance to prove yourself one last time? That was a cruel and low thing to do to any warrior. I vowed then that I would find my would-be killer and face him in open combat, if not for my own pride, then for these men. And where the fuck is my sword? I fell here, and… that son of a bitch must've taken it. Damn him!

I needed a drink.

* * *

"And that, my friends, is how I met Corvus Maren for the first time," I drawled drunkenly at the gathered crowd. Apparently, stories about our resident savior were very popular around Whiterun, because there were over twenty warm bodies gathered around my and Raylief's table. "Aww, but I guess what you guys really want to hear about is the second time I met 'im." The assorted listeners clamored and shouted their assent. "Mebbe a week or two after that, i headed to the fine city we stand in today, Whiterun. I'd heard that the Companions were looking for fresh meat, and it seemed like just the place that i could work at, so I took a medium risk courier job to the city to see what i could get..."


End file.
